I met a cute girl/Basic Game Brush-Ups

A better wording of my approach to game, the holistic approach if you will.

Short, concise advice on men's fashion

Awhile back I reintroducted myself to ***** dancing.
I feel semi-comfortable doing it.
The pretense is to meet people and the subtext is for less "go out and get wasted and play the faux red carpet bullshit weekend menagerie of excess" and more "normal or even shy people have a pretense to interact and perhaps meet and date" which the sober me appreciates.

At any rate, I finished up at the gym, stopped by a spot to grab some coffee, brushed up on my ******** with some foreign girls who happened to be in line in front of me.
I sat next to a girl I didn't know downstairs while I ate my food and sipped my coffee.
I opted for ***** dancing because if you want to eat, you have to go where there's prey. 

I don't feel the drive but I know that I have to polish my conversational skills and I've been making excuses rather than actually going out to meet women.

The American Dream:

My feet lead and I hope the desire will follow.

I notice her at first. Dark hair. Petite. Dark eyes.
We dance and she's petite and lithe in my hands.
We have several things in common and we talk easily.
Some other dude hawks around her when we take a break and I dance with some other girls, giving her space because I'm not a needy, stalker/creeper and I let him spin his talk engine round and round and run his routine into the ground then dance most of the remaining songs with her as the event winds down.
That dude is blabbing on and on, and I motion over his shoulder with a phone hand sign and point to her and she nods. She has me put my number in her phone and sends me hers.

We make tentative plans to go dancing again, but experience has taught me not to place much faith in such errant suggestions. This is the dating game in which we must exist.

I go to a meeting and someone who often shared picks up a fresh white chip b/c they relapsed.
I have dinner with a buddy of mine and I drive home.

I wake up to some sexts from a super cute waif I met at a **** in ********.
Perky tits that you instantly recognize on a girl aged 22.
The kind that only come on a young body that doesn't have to work out to look like that.
She parties when she wants. Makes money modeling as a suicide girl.
A face made for deep throating and big doe eyes that are pleading to stream tears and mascara while she gags.

An unintended consequence of getting my shit together is my game has to change.
When I was a raging womanizer alcoholic I couldn't get girls to break up with me. No matter how outlandish, I could NOT get a girl to leave me.
The new me is far too vanilla for the American woman who says one thing but does another.

It dawns on me it's been literally almost a year since I met a really cute girl in this "city".
I spend my time hawking out my resume and I've got some follow-ups.
No matter what it takes, by summer I'm relocating, even if it's to sleep on a fucking couch.